3. Gracie
GRACIE
Ryan's texts have been getting worse.
They started the day after I moved — just checking in, he said. Making sure Amelia was settling okay. Reasonable on the surface, the way he always is. The way he's trained himself to be, so that when I try to explain it to anyone else, I sound paranoid. Crazy. Like the problem is me.
But I know what's underneath. I lived with it for seven years.
"Hope the new place is working out. Amelia mentioned she misses her friends."
"Heard there's been some issues at school. We should talk about what's best for her."
"The custody review is coming up. Just want to make sure we're on the same page."
Each one carefully worded. Each one designed to make me doubt myself, my choices, my parenting. He never threatens outright. He doesn't have to.
Today is the custody handoff. Neutral location — a McDonald's parking lot halfway between Tucson and Phoenix. It was my lawyer's idea. Public place, security cameras, witnesses. Safe.
I don't feel safe.
Amelia's in the back seat, kicking her feet against the seat in front of her and chattering about the book she's reading. She doesn't know anything's wrong. That's the one thing I've managed to do right — keep her out of the middle, at least as much as I can.
"Mom, do you think Dad will take me to get ice cream?"
"Maybe, sweetheart. You'll have to ask him."
"He said last time he would. But then he didn't."
I grip the steering wheel tighter. "Well, maybe this time."
The McDonald's comes into view, and my stomach drops. His car is already there — the black BMW, parked in the corner of the lot. He's early. He's never early.
I pull into a spot on the opposite side and take a breath. Then another.
You can do this. It's ten minutes. Fifteen, tops. Hand her over, confirm the pickup time on Sunday, leave.
"Ready, baby?"
Amelia unbuckles and grabs her backpack. "Ready!"
We walk across the parking lot together, her hand in mine. Ryan steps out of his car as we approach, and my whole body tenses.
He looks the same. That's the worst part. Clean-cut, well-dressed, the kind of man other women look at and think she's lucky. Blonde hair perfectly styled. Easy smile that used to make me feel special. Now it just makes my skin crawl.
"There's my girl!" He crouches down and opens his arms, and Amelia runs to him. He scoops her up, spinning her around, and she giggles.
I stand there, arms at my sides, waiting.
When he sets her down, his eyes find mine. The smile stays, but something shifts behind it. Something cold.
"Gracie. You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"The drive must be rough. All this back and forth." He tilts his head, sympathetic. Concerned. "You know, if you moved back to Phoenix, this would be so much easier. For everyone."
"I'm happy where I am."
"Are you?" He takes a step closer, and I have to fight the urge to step back. "Because you don't look happy. You look stressed. Overwhelmed." His voice drops, just for me. "You look like you're barely holding it together."
"I'm fine."
"I'm just worried about you, Gracie. That's all." He glances at Amelia, who's distracted by something on her phone. "Worried about what all this... instability is doing to our daughter."
"Don't do that," I say quietly. "Don't pretend this is about her."
His smile doesn't waver. "Everything I do is about her."
Like he ever gave a shit about her when we were married. Like he ever changed a diaper or sat up with her when she was sick or did anything that wasn't performative.
"She's fine," I say, keeping my voice steady. "She's happy. She's adjusting."
"Is she?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, scrolling through something. "Because her teacher mentioned she's been having trouble making friends. Seems withdrawn. Not like herself."
My blood runs cold. "How do you know what her teacher said?"
"I called the school. I'm her father, Gracie. I have a right to know how she's doing."
He's watching me. Waiting for me to react, to lose my temper, to give him something he can use. I've seen this play before. I know exactly what he's doing.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
"Amelia," I say, turning to her. "Come give me a hug before you go."
She bounces over and throws her arms around me. I hold her tight, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, trying to memorize the feel of her in my arms.
"I love you, baby. Be good for your dad, okay?"
"I will. Love you, Mom!"
And then she's climbing into Ryan's car, and he's giving me that smile again — the one that says I've already won — and I'm walking back to my car on legs that feel like they might give out.
I make it inside before the shaking starts.
The drive home is a blur.
I keep replaying the conversation, picking apart every word, every implication.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I'm exhausted. The kind of tired that goes bone-deep, the kind that sleep doesn't fix. I sit in the car for a long minute, staring at nothing.
Diesel's motorcycle is in his driveway. I can see him through the gap in his garage door, doing something with tools. The sight of him steadies me, somehow. Solid. Real. A reminder that not everything in my life is falling apart.
I go inside and try to keep busy. Clean the kitchen. Start laundry. Make a cup of tea I don't drink. Call my mom, who doesn't answer.
The hours crawl by.
By ten o'clock, I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling, knowing I'm not going to sleep.
The house feels too quiet without Amelia. Too empty. I keep checking my phone, waiting for Ryan to text something, some new dig, some fresh way to make me feel small.
Nothing comes. Somehow that's worse.
At eleven, I give up.
I pull on a hoodie over my sleep shorts and pad to the kitchen to make tea. I find myself drifting toward the window without thinking.
He's outside. Sitting on his porch steps, beer in hand, looking up at the sky. The streetlight catches the edge of his profile — strong jaw, broad shoulders, that stillness that always seems to surround him.
I should go back to bed. I should leave him alone. It's late, and we're neighbors, and I don't need to complicate my already complicated life by—
I'm already opening the back door.
The night air is cool against my bare legs as I cross the yard. He doesn't turn, but I see his posture shift. He knows I'm coming.
"Can't sleep?" he asks when I reach him.
"How'd you guess?"
He tilts his head toward the empty spot next to him on the steps. An invitation.
I sit. Not too close, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. He's in jeans and a black t-shirt, nothing special, but the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders makes my mouth go dry.
Get it together, Gracie.
"Amelia with her dad?" he asks.
"Yeah. For the weekend."
He nods. Doesn't push. Doesn't ask questions I don't want to answer.
We sit in silence for a minute. It should be awkward — two people who barely know each other, sitting on a porch in the middle of the night — but it's not. There's something easy about being next to him. Something that makes the knot in my chest loosen, just a little.
"Rough day?" he asks finally.
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "That obvious?"
"You came outside at eleven o'clock to sit with a guy you barely know. Kind of a giveaway."
"Fair point." I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "It's just... my ex. He has a way of getting in my head."
Diesel takes a sip of his beer. "He hurt you?"
The question is casual. The look in his eyes isn't.
"Not the way you're thinking," I say carefully.
"He never hit me. Never even raised his voice.
But he..." I trail off, not sure how to explain it.
"He made me feel small. Controlled everything — what I wore, who I talked to, how I spent my time.
And when I tried to push back, he'd twist things around until I wasn't sure what was real anymore. "
Diesel doesn't say anything for a long moment. "That's still hurt."
Something loosens in my chest. I've tried to explain this to people before — my mom, my friends, even my lawyer — and they always say the same thing.
But he never hit you. At least he wasn't violent.
Like that's the only metric that matters.
Like the slow erosion of everything I was doesn't count because it didn't leave visible bruises.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It is."
He turns to look at me, and the weight of his gaze makes my breath catch. Dark eyes, steady and serious.
"He's not going to touch you again," he says. "Not while I'm next door."
It's not a grand declaration. He doesn't puff up or make threats or try to be a hero. He just says it, simple and direct, like it's a fact. Like it's already decided.
And God help me, I believe him.
"You don't even know me," I whisper.
"I know enough."
The air between us shifts. Charged, suddenly. I'm aware of how close we're sitting, of the heat of his body next to mine, of the way his eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before coming back up.
"I'm a mess," I tell him. "I've got more baggage than an airport carousel. I'm twenty-seven with a kid and an ex who's trying to destroy me, and I haven't been on a date in eight years, and I don't even know what I'm doing out here—"
"Gracie."
His voice cuts through my rambling, low and rough.
"Yeah?"
"Stop talking."
And then he kisses me.
It's soft at first. Careful. A question more than a demand. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek, and I feel the calluses on his palm, the roughness of a man who works with his hands.
I answer the question by leaning into him.
The kiss deepens. His other hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I'm gripping the front of his shirt like I'm afraid he might disappear. He tastes like beer and something darker, something that makes me want more.
It's been so long since anyone touched me like this. So long since I felt wanted instead of owned.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His hand still on my neck, his thumb tracing slow circles against my skin.
"That was probably a bad idea," I say, but I'm smiling.
"Probably." He's smiling too. Just a little. A crack in that stoic exterior. "Want me to apologize?"
"God, no."
He laughs — a low, rough sound that I feel all the way through me. "Good. Because I wasn't going to."
I should go inside. I should get some sleep, clear my head, figure out what the hell I'm doing. But I don't want to move. I don't want this moment to end.
"I should go," I say, making no effort to stand.
"Yeah," he agrees. He doesn't move either.
We sit there a little longer, shoulders touching, the night quiet around us. Eventually, I make myself get up. My legs are unsteady, and not just from the cold.
"Goodnight, Diesel."
"Night, Gracie." He looks up at me, and the way his eyes travel slowly down my bare legs and back up again makes my skin flush. "Sleep better."
I walk back to my house feeling lighter than I have in weeks. When I glance back, he's still sitting there, watching me go.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, pressing my fingers to my lips.
That was definitely a bad idea.
I can't wait to do it again.